


The Man In The Castle

by TheMorningGlory



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Arranged Marriage, Elizabeth and Forsythe, Emotional, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fairytale Vibes, Falling In Love, Forsythe has a tragic past, Friendship/Love, Gothic Romance, Historical Romance, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romanticism, Tender romance, a mish mash of many fairytales, bughead - Freeform, if a Saint Saens composition was brought to life..., musician! Jughead, rich! Jughead, to remain a one-shot for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMorningGlory/pseuds/TheMorningGlory
Summary: There in the darkest hour of nightA bride awaitsAs her carriage shakesThe meeting of her husband’s faces hue___When the winter decimates the crops in a quiet French village, Elizabeth Cooper's parents are forced to make a difficult decision. Faced with starvation, they decide to marry their daughter off to the wealthy, but eccentric musician, Monsieur Jones, who resides in a beautiful chateau on the hillside overlooking their village.AU.
Relationships: Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	The Man In The Castle

_and in that day,_

_the veil will be taken away_

_and we will behold his glory forevermore_

* * *

“We don’t have any other choice, dear,” Monsieur Cooper said, surprising even himself by the sound of desperation in his voice. He glanced down at their well-loved dining table; his eyes were glazed over with sadness as his calloused fingertips pressed against the faded varnish at its edge. He felt defeated, but what could _he_ do?

The winter in the region, a sleepy village shaded by the lush trees in the French mountains, had been harsh, and the evenings – _brutal_. The result was an abysmal planting season. In times past, crops had grown easily there given the richness of the earth above the mountain, but, due to the cold, many of the crops in the surrounding areas that both he and the other residents tended to had failed to sprout at all. As a result, there was little grain to be ground at the dilapidated millhouse, which stood just a few steps behind the modest cobblestone dwelling the family of four called home. The roof, which was in a serious state of disrepair, was badly in need thatching; but presently, given the status quo of their funds, which had run dry, they had no money for such a thing.

Monsieur Cooper gazed at the leftovers on his plate, gripping the bottom of his wine glass in one hand as he thought of what to say, to do. The only other alternative – starvation – was not a viable option, no. This marriage, it seemed, would happen after all. It had to. His forehead creased as he considered another way.

But there was quite simply no other choice to be made. They were on their last loaf of bread. They had nothing. And this – marrying their daughter off to a nobleman of substantial means – was their only recourse against the poverty that had swept through the locale in recent months, a quiet, bucolic village nestled against the side of a small mountain, which overlooked the turquoise bay of the Rhône river, a tributary between the border of the Swiss Alps and Lake Geneva that ran through the southeastern region of France.

Monsieur Cooper looked up once more, afraid of what he might see as he came face to face with his youngest daughter; his unsteady gaze caught her bright green eyes and held it. _Tell her now, his gut admonished. Tell her the truth._ His face was solemn, his words final. “Your mother and I can no longer afford to care for you and your sister, Elizabeth. That’s the lot of it, dear.”

Elizabeth, whose senses had already been heightened by the sight of both her parents in such a state of disarray, began to shake, to weep.

Tears stung Hal’s face, which made his complexion look ruddy against the dim light of the night. The yellow candles in the corner of the room were still burning, though they were barely stubs by now. He stiffened his neck, clearing his throat before he let out his final say on the matter. “I’m sorry.”

As Madame Cooper wept softly, she clutched her handkerchief and attempted to bury her face against the sheer white fabric.

“Papa!” Elizabeth held fast to the pale ribbons encircling the waist of her white linen gown, curling them around her fingers nervously. “Don’t make me marry this man,” she entreated, “please.”

“We don’t have any other choice!” Monsieur Cooper raised his voice this time, standing up from the table, which shook the plain china littering the tabletop.

Now Elizabeth knew the reason why their dinner had been so fraught with unspoken tension – it was their final night together, their last night as a family. And though their dinner had been meager by all accounts, the empty plates served as remnants of their last meal together before shipping their daughter off to marry a man she’d never even met – a mad man.

That was what all the villagers said of the eccentric young man, who resided in a rather archaic looking manor that lay just beyond the hill; the paleness of its exterior looked as though it had been carved from the mountainside, and it was and had always been forever there, entrenched atop the edge of the small village hidden from the outside world.

Deep inside the Estate’s marbled walls of obsidian limestone, well-hidden from the prying eyes of the villagers, was the most opulent of interiors, which boasted every kind of treasure that a man of means could purchase. The hallways alone were framed with an interplay of finely cut stones – quartz, granite, and the smoothest sandstone that had been harvested from remote caverns whose contents were buried within the center of the earth. And he, a lonesome dove and dreamer, dwelt inside its gilded interior alone.

Although Monsieur Jones was by all accounts, quite rich, the villagers, which had already rejected him and his musical idiosyncrasies, were barely aware of what his families fortune entailed. For he had never ventured beyond its iron gates – at least, not since the death of his immediate family, which had happened many years prior.

Most, if not all, of the village elders said that this type of elongated grief – living in the rich shadows of his family’s estate – seemed to be one of perpetual duration. And because he wasn’t like them, they decided, then, that he was “touched.” On occasion, when they were feeling particularly cruel, some of the villagers would congregate together, walk to the edge of the city, accusing fingers extended outwards in the direction of his abode, their chins pointed upwards as they tore him down with their words. “Look up there,” they would say in unison, “he’s mad! He’s always playing his music day and night! Can you hear it?”

But they were correct in one of their judgments, at least. For Monsieur Jones was no ordinary nobleman. He was, by all accounts, highly unusual. The upper echelon of the village, whose self-imposed occupation it was to know the in’s and outs of its local inhabitants, regarded him as something of an anomaly among the remainder of the villagers, many of whom had never actually seen his face, let alone spoken to him.

His only recourse against his own self-imposed solitude was to play his music at the foot of the window that overlooked his chambers by day. He required a cloak of night to shield him from their prying eyes; when night fell, he would play his violin against the foot of the highest balcony in the manor. The terraces height was so high, in fact, that even some brave soul, who ventured up the steps past the hill, and stood well within the courtyard below the estate could see only the ghostly figure of a slender young man playing his violin. And, despite their concerted efforts, they could never actually see him or his face.

On the chillier evenings, when the night air was particularly cold and the wind whipped the waters up from the edge of the lake, Monsieur Jones would remain indoors instead. All windows were fastened shut, but if one listened closely, though few ever dared to stand close enough to hear him play, they could hear the sound of piano keys going _tap! tu-tap-tap!_ in the wind as a waltz reverberated from the rafter.

Monsieur Jones was forever in mourning, a state which he drifted in and out of – though never wavered from – as he played his music day and night against the brightness of the sun and the widest of moons, waxing and waning like each of his melodies, all of which were different, but had that same undertone of finality about them.

And this was precisely what young Elizabeth was feeling as she looked into her father’s eyes. There was no compassion there, for fate had had none for them either. Poverty, it seemed, was no respecter of persons – nobleman or otherwise.

“Go,” her father said, “and until your married, don’t come back!”

Elizabeth took one final look at the dejected faces of her mother, sister, and father. _Tragique,_ she thought to herself, forgetting that she too was a player on same depressed stage. Her elder sister’s eyes were tinged pink from crying and the coloring of her cheeks appeared sallow; she held her hand to her lips and managed a wave as Alice’s fingers dug into her arm. Elizabeth sighed and stepped into the wooden carriage outside, which would take her to the cathedral – a relic from the last days of the Frankish kingdoms at the edge of the village where she would be wed.

She waved a goodbye for what she assumed was the final time and the carriage was off.

.

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The night ahead was dark and unforgiving.

As the carriage sped down the stone pathway, carried along by two sturdy horses, young Elizabeth clasped her hands together nervously and sat them in between her legs, waiting. Her teeth began to chatter as a cold breeze from the north hit her face and caused her hair to spin up and out against the wind in various directions. Her lips were blue, her skin pale. And the light of the moon – now hanging against the night sky – shone its brightness down onto her face.

The pathway leading to the cathedral looked unkempt and the road, winding. A strange and wondrous melody began to fill her ears as she neared the exterior of the church. And he – her future husband’s shadow, that is – could be seen from a far-off distance like a black pole, playing like the pied piper cloaked in darkness.

But if he was playing his music _there_ , she thought to herself, how then, could he be _here_ , too? Elizabeth mulled over the thought, considering the factual impossibility.

“Madame.” The carriage driver halted the two horses driving the wooden cart. He cleared his throat, but never looked back at her. “I’ll be waiting,” he said. There was no friendliness in his tone. This, she decided – at least, for him – was purely a business endeavor. She looked on as the elderly gentleman turned back to face the road, still clutching the reins in the palms of his hands.

Elizabeth climbed out of the carriage. She gulped and began to walk towards the entrance of the church where she was to be wed at a modest pace. Once she stepped inside the cathedral, she felt a strong hand grab firmly against her arm.

“Quickly, child,” a father in grey robes said, “quickly, lest Monsieur Jones change his mind and you’re sent back to be with your family – penniless and _without_ aid.”

Elizabeth swallowed and allowed him to pull her along. Soon, they were standing in the center of the cathedral. She looked at the nave curiously and wondered where Monsieur Jones was, for she saw no sign of him or any man there. Instead, a short choral boy stood in the place of where she assumed her future husband to be would have been waiting.

“Go on, child.” The sashes on the father’s robes shook as he placed a hand against her back to hurry her along.

“I don’t understand, father.” Elizabeth picked up the pace, her long dress gliding past her ankles. She stopped at the front of the altar, which was littered with yellow candles and ivory flowers and turned to the father. “Where is my husband to be?”

The father simply extended his hand and arm toward the young choral boy, who, from the looks of things was no more than fourteen years of age. “Father,” Elizabeth pressed him for details once more, “where is Monsieur Jones?”

The father paused and cleared his throat. “Monsieur Jones doesn’t want to be seen about town, Mademoiselle, so he arranged for you and he to have a proxy marriage.”

“Father –” A look of bewilderment spread across Elizabeth’s face. Sensing her confusion and unease, the clergyman went on to explain the situation with a bit more detail, though, unfortunately, not as much as she would have liked.

The father clasped his hands together. “Monsieur Jones has already acquired the requisite authorization needed for such a marriage from both myself and the archbishop over this region.” He rested one hand against his abdomen and continued. “While Monsieur Jones will not be present at this wedding, it is, nevertheless, binding on all accounts. His presence is not actually needed in this instance _because_ ,” he motioned again at the youth to the left of the alter, “young Etienne over there will stand in his place.”

“But sir,” Elizabeth was cautious with her words, “How can than be, sir? Forgive me for saying so, but he _is_ just a boy. I don’t–”

“I’m sixteen,” Etienne replied.

The father held up his palm to silence her. “I can assure you, Mademoiselle, that this is perfectly legal. This type of marriage arrangement, while not ideal, is nevertheless recognized in canon law. All that is needed is the authorization, which we have, and,” the father grabbed a piece of parchment paper from the table and a graphite stick, “your signature, just here,” he said, pointing at what appeared to be a blank space next to a rather willowy looking signature, which she assumed was that of Monsieur Jones; all she could make out from the sinuous calligraphy were two smaller signatures – those of the father, the archbishop – and an elongated “J” written directly above them.

As Elizabeth swallowed, she felt like her legs were about to give out from beneath her. She watched the father place the paper atop the table once more and resigned herself to her fate. “I’ll do it,” she said, looking up at the father with a surer expression than before. She turned around and her eyes met Etienne’s against the dimmed lighting in the corner of the cathedral.

Etienne smiled politely. Then, he looked over at the father for further instructions, scratching his head awkwardly as he waited for him to speak.

“This is for the benefit of your family, dear.” The father’s voice was warm and comforting. “If you have any doubts now, please, allow me to dispel them for you,” he said. “You are doing something unselfishly, Elizabeth. Remember that. And if there’s ever a time you feel saddened by all of this, think on that my dear. The greatest position in life one can take is to selflessly care for others.”

“I will.” Her voice sounded so small and so unimportant in the dim light of the grandiose cathedral. Her gaze moved upwards one final time as her green eyes took in the sight of the walls next to the nave. They were decorated in full, filled with all manner of ornate relics from bygone eras.

“Now, dear.” The father smiled politely. He looked Elizabeth up and down, as if attempting to detect the faintest sign of apprehension on her part. When he found none, he looked her in the eyes. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Okay,” she said, “yes, I’m ready, father – wh-whever you are,” she stuttered, her fingers encircling the smooth ribbons beneath her waist to prevent herself from shaking. She inched closer to Etienne and he did the same; she was fully aware that every step she took was her last one as a free woman. Soon, they were both standing next to one another in the way a betrothed couple would normally stand.

Her moment of forever – arguably the most pivotal one in her life thus far – was over in a matter of minutes.

She signed the document and Etienne, who stood behind her politely and allowed her to take her time, signed afterwards and it was done.

Mademoiselle Elizabeth Jones was now by law one half of a pairing, but still felt very much alone.

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As the carriage drove onwards, Elizabeth took in her surroundings; there were trees on either side of the carriage. They looked like overgrown ink stains, growing upwards and out, blackening the night and bleeding into the violet sky. The leaves on the trees were few, and the moon, which inched outwards to meet them as the carriage wandered up the hill, was bright and full.

Elizabeth glanced down at her ring finger curiously; her long fingers felt heavy beneath the substantial weight of the white stone. She knew that Monsieur Jones was well-off, but this – a ring of such splendor, which could only be purchased by a man of means – was something she had never beheld before. Its overlay was of pure, untarnished white gold; the gemstone itself was composed of a glistening white diamond, brilliantly framed by even tinier stones which shone brilliantly beneath the light of the yellow moon.

They passed a clearing of thin trees as the horse-drawn carriage continued onwards. The sound of the horse’s hooves hitting the pavement mixed with the whistle of the wind, which sounded sad and mild in the same instance. And then, just as the carriage pulled closer to the front of the stone estate, Elizabeth heard it –

The beautiful, final, and very painful sound of a violin being played in the night, its bow stretched across its taut string, hard and fast. The rhythm picked up – faster, quicker. As if in a dream, she began to hum a song about nothing under her breath and right as she did, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, its metal wheels screeching underneath her feet as the horses stilled obediently beneath the shadow of the strange and stately home.

“Mademoiselle.” The driver turned around and looked at her. He wasted no time, hopping off the carriage and hastily pulling her few belongings from the back of the bearing. Then, with his hand shaking, he extended it outwards, not wanting to linger in such an eerie place for longer than necessary. “We’ve arrived,” he said loudly, as if to say this is it.

Elizabeth was feeling nervous as she took his hand.

The driver tipped his hat to her. She watched as he hopped onto the carriage, took the two ropes in his hand and yelled _Obtenir!_ with determination, repeating it again when the horses stalled, one kicking its hooves against the earth below. The carriage disappeared down the dark road in a matter of seconds, but Elizabeth could still hear the steady sound of hooves – click, clack – echoing against the ground below.

She turned, her linen dress dragging against the stone beneath her foot as she looked up. The door to the chateau was of a rich, mahogany color. From where she was standing, part of the house appeared to be decorated with stone columns crafted from the finest marble that money could buy.

She half wondered in this moment if she should run – to the woods, to the ocean, to anywhere. But then she remembered the father’s words. Before she had entered into holy matrimony with a proxy – that young choir boy, Etienne, because from what she had observed, he hardly constituted – for all intents and purposes – _a man_. She remembered, then, why she was even doing this in the first place: for family, for survival.

Though, not for her.

Elizabeth brushed the wrinkles from her raiment’s, which were modest and unadorned; she looked down at the garment, which was very worn, wishing she had something more formal to wear on her own wedding night. She tackled her internal conflict with a deep sigh and with some resolve took a step forward. It was, after all, the first step in her new home, her ever after. When she looked up at the door, she noticed the large brass knocker sticking out of two rather unseemly looking griffons with hollowed-out mouths.

“Oh dear,” she whispered to herself, wondering if her husband to be decorated the rest of his chateau in such a dark manner. _Was he dark, too?_ She balled her hand into a fist and gave a hard, swift knock against the wooden door. When no one answered she tried again. And again.

Still, no answer.

Finally, Elizabeth looked down at the two door handles, which were also quite ornate for such an everyday object; each of them had tiny designs carved into their centers.

The night was already growing cold and after all, this was now her permanent home. So, she did the only thing she could do in this instance and turned the brass doorknob.

“Hello?” Elizabeth took a single step inside expansive manor. “Hello,” she cried again, her bag in her other hand. When she finally pushed the door open, she was startled by what she beheld.

There, just directly to her left, was a winding staircase, with heather gray agate columns on either side of it. There were two long hallways – one at her left, the other at her right – each with several hollowed-out alcoves, which held several ornate statutes – and the tapestries – at least, the ones she got a glimpse of at first blush, looked as though the pictures woven within their bright, crisp threads were spun with silk and gold; their centers glowed as the soft lighting of the candelabras hit just right, causing the immovable images of woven worldly beings – far off places and things – to shine as though they were living.

Elizabeth’s hands held steadfast to the small bag of her belongings as she took the scene in. She grasped at the fabric of her dress as her eyes took in the view once more. She had never imagined this – such splendor – lie just above the hill and inside the walls of the eccentric young man’s opulent home.

Elizabeth swallowed and as she looked down at her modest gown, it filled her with shame. In the lighting of this palatial tomb – she, a near penniless villager, felt unkempt and unworthy of such grandeur. The frock she had put on that morning after splashing water against her chilled cheeks looked more than a little worse for wear. She thumbed at the ribbons just above her waist nervously; she could see the tears in the hem of the dress just past her ankles – and the ribbons, which looked white and smooth, and, by all appearances, still retained their sheen – were, in actuality, quite threadbare. This was poverty; it was a shameful moment for her, but it was soon interrupted by the dull, aching feeling in her lower legs and calves.

_Aie!_ Elizabeth dipped her hand down, bended her knees gracefully and rubbed them for a few seconds. Her bones ached because she had not had enough to eat for quite some time now. When a winter night was especially bad, she would toss and turn against her worn-out cot, unable to sleep because of the pains in her stomach and limbs. But when there was no food, there was no food.

As Elizabeth straightened her body, she thought she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. She turned to the left and saw the light of a white candle grow brighter and brighter as it approached her. Someone was coming towards her. She whispered little prayers under her breath in informal French – pleas to help her rest in the night – to be a good wife, and most importantly, to not disappoint her family.

“Elizabeth?” The voice questioned cautiously, “is that you, Mademoiselle?” The figure held up the candle from a safe distance.

It was the unmistakable voice of a female. Relieved, Elizabeth dropped her shoulders, which were tensed up, and relaxed her posture. She hadn’t wanted to meet her husband in this way – clothing in tatters and standing penniless at the doorway. As the woman removed the candle from her face, she realized it was an elderly woman quite a bit older than herself, who appeared to be some sort of housekeeper. She smiled politely, which made Elizabeth feel at ease.

“I’m Madame Violet,” the woman said by way of introduction. “I’m sorry that Monsieur Jones is not here to greet you,” she said rather hesitantly, “but,” she paused and looked up at Elizabeth’s face, “all will be explained in time, I think. Come,” she said, “he’s waiting for you in the study.”

Elizabeth allowed her to take her belongings without too much fuss.

Madam Violet took them from her and beckoned her forward. “It’s just this way,” she said, nodding, “down the last expanse of the hall and to the left. His study is in the west wing.”

She followed Madame Violet, careful to keep a few steps behind her. The two of them ambled on in silence, their even taller shadows dancing against the walls and across the floor as they walked.

Elizabeth studied the elderly woman, who was several paces ahead of her now, and realized – much to her dismay – that even Monsieur Joneses housekeeper was in better raiment’s than she. This filled her with a sense of shame; she felt disgraced, like someone to be pitied – she didn’t belong _here_ of all places. And then –

She heard him. Not his voice, but the sound of his music as it echoed down the hallway.

“He’s always playing,” the housekeeper said, “usually on the grand piano or his violin. It rarely ceases,” she added, sounding mildly amused, “but,” she cleared her throat, “it does sound nice all the same and it helps lull me to sleep some nights.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. _This was it._ Her footing faltered as she realized that they were very nearly at the study.

The housekeeper stepped aside and said her name by way of introduction, “Sir,” the housekeeper cleared her throat, “Mademoiselle Jones is here, sir. Your lovely bride awaits.”

Then, Elizabeth saw him – but it wasn’t really _him_ that she saw. Instead, what she saw was more so the figure of a man, whose back was turned to her and his gaze somewhere into the far-off night. She couldn’t even see what his face looked like – at least, not properly – as she pushed her chin forward in hopes of seeing more.

The tall, lithe figure paused, fingering the elongated bow to his violin in one hand. “Forgive me, Elizabeth,” he said calmly. His voice sounded like liquid water and his tone was gentle. “I don’t like people looking at my face,” he went on to explain, “which is why I haven’t turned around to meet you, my bride. Please,” he said, pulling his shoulders down, “forgive me,” he entreated once more, “I know that this probably isn’t what you were expecting.”

She watched as his other hand placed his violin against the table by his side. He pulled his arm up and began running his hand through his hair as if he were thinking. Satisfied with whatever the thought was, he stuck his hands in his pockets and said in the most delicate tone, “Are you hungry?”

_Hungry?_ Elizabeth’s eyes travelled up and down the young man’s back side. He seemed a little tense and she was suddenly feeling incredibly nervous. _Why doesn’t he want me to see him_ , she wondered, _what’s_ _the matter?_ She had heard the stories about him of course, but none of them had ever revealed that there were any issues with how he looked. Dread filled her gut as she began thinking of possibilities of what was really going on here. Was he disfigured? Her almost thought was interrupted by the low, rumbling sounds that filled her stomach. Almost immediately, her hunger got the better of her and she forgot all about being anxious. And she forgot all about the fact that this man – the perfect stranger standing about ten feet from her – was, forever and always – her husband _._

“Yes,” Elizabeth swallowed, watching his head tilt just a little. He was listening. “I’m really hungry,” she said in admission. She felt embarrassed by her own necessity, but there was no sense in lying to him.

“Not to worry, Elizabeth,” he said kindly, “I can have Violet make you some dinner...if you like.” His shoulder’s softened and his fingers rubbed against the end table where he had laid his violin.

She watched the back of his head curiously; it moved up and down as he spoke. She wondered if he was watching her watching him as he was standing quite close to a window, though she could barely make out his own reflection against it. She thought she saw a row of gleaming white teeth, but that was all. No more. His hair appeared to be a rich, black hue and she couldn’t help but wonder what his face looked like, too.

“I’d like that,” she whispered, her voice sounding a bit timid. She shuddered against the stillness of the room and awaited his response.

“Violet.” He turned his head just a little, although it was not enough for her or the housekeeper to see his face. “Take my bride to the kitchen and see to it that she is well fed before retiring to her chambers.”

“Of course.” Violet smiled politely. “Come along, dear. This kitchen is just down the hallway.”

Relieved, Elizabeth managed a smile.

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Once Elizabeth had finished eating, they began the long walk to her chambers.

And she was grateful it was taking an inordinate amount of time, due largely in part to the size of the estate – it allowed her time to think.

Elizabeth took in the sight around her, still trying to process everything while enjoying the pulchritude of the inside of the chateau. “This home is so beautiful,” she remarked as they passed by several lit candelabras. “It reminds me of a castle.”

Madam Violet sighed wistfully. “It used to be livelier back in the day,” she said in passing.

“Oh?”

“Monsieur Jones used to run down these hallways screaming as a little boy.” She laughed. “We couldn’t keep the candles lit of course. He’d accidentally knock one over.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Did he?”

“Oh yes, he was a boisterous little boy. Of course, things have gotten quieter since then.”

She thought of Monsieur Jones standing in the study, and how serious he had seemed. “Because he grew up?”

“Not quite,” she replied. “After his father passed, things were never the same, I’m afraid.” Mademoiselle sighed longingly as she took in their surroundings. “His mother and sister followed not long after that.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth stopped in her tracks. “So, his family…they are all deceased?”

She nodded. “Forsythe is like a son to me,” Madam Violet said. “I’ve been taking care of him since he was a baby.” She smiled. “Of course, now he doesn’t let me get so close.”

“Why?” She asked quietly.

“It’s complicated, dear.”

As they continued walking, Elizabeth thought about how difficult it would be to not have a family, and although her family didn’t have much, they had always had each other no matter the circumstances. She also wondered what had happened with his mother and sister but didn’t want to pry.

“Almost there,” Madam Violet said to her as they passed another gilded portrait.

Elizabeth smiled at her politely and they continued walking.

As she looked to her left, Elizabeth noticed that a particular painting was concealed with a long white curtain, while the other pictures were left uncovered. She stopped and stared at it curiously, wondering what was behind it. She was about to remove the veil, and had very nearly tugged the covering down from its corner, when Madam Violet noticed that she was no longer walking beside her, and, consequently, turned around to see what had caught her eye.

“Why is this covered?” she asked. 

She stiffened. “Monsieur Jones doesn’t like to look at his portrait,” she replied.

“But why?”

Madam Violet pursed her lips together but didn’t say anything further.

Because of the abruptness of her mannerisms, Elizabeth ascertained that she didn’t want her looking at the painting, so she let go of the delicate fabric that was strung around the frame. “Forgive me for asking,” she whispered in the dark, “but is there something wrong with his face?” Elizabeth turned and looked at her.

“Not a thing.” Madam Violet smiled.

Elizabeth sighed in relief.

“Come on, dear. Let me take you to your room.”

She nodded.

Madam Violet continued walking down the hallway ahead of her and stopped at the wooden doors at the end of the hallway.

“Here we are,” she said, opening a door for her. “I hope you like your room, dear.”

Elizabeth held her breath and stepped inside the place she was to call home from this day forward. Only it wasn’t a room at all, at least, not one that she had ever beheld.

In the center of the bedroom, there was a large king-sized bed, with long, yellow curtains hanging all around it, which were to be used in the wintertime to keep out the draft. Beside the bed, there was a roaring fire, which made light crackling sounds as the logs burned steadily beneath the flames. As she took another step, she realized that the pale pink wallpaper was covered with golden leaves and flowers, which shone as her figure flitted past them.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispered in disbelief. “It’s beautiful.”

“I put fresh roses on the desk this morning. Shall I leave your tea there as well?”

Elizabeth glanced over at the desk near the window. There was a large bouquet of white roses in a glass vase in one corner, and a quill and a vat of ink on the other end.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” she says meekly.

“Not at all, dear.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“I’ll be down the hall if you need anything. Goodnight.”

“Night,” she replied softly.

Once Madam Violet shut the door to her room, Elizabeth went over to the vanity near her bedside to study herself in the mirror. She looked down at her own gown, frowned, and then gave the room a once over again, hoping for something to change into. She noticed there was a long blue nightgown draped across the other side of the bed. Relieved, she went over to it to take a closer look. Its fabric felt like silk as she picked it up – it slipped through her fingers like water. Elizabeth smiled. She quickly changed her clothes, letting her hair down as she brushed it through with her fingers. Once she was satisfied that it looked presentable, she took the ribbon from her old gown and tied it around her hair.

Elizabeth had always wondered what it would be like to be married, and now the day had finally come. As a little girl, she would often play with her dolls in the old millhouse, dressing them up, and pretending that they were to be wed. Her favorite doll, the one that resembled her the most, was always married off to the doll with dark hair. Of course, it was the only male doll she had as her parents never had the means to buy her anything new, but she decided that meant something.

She sighed as she thought of home, and of her childhood, both of which seemed far, far away now.

She could sense the moon shining through the window out of the corner of her eye, and as she looked up she caught sight of it gleaming through the trees in the darkness, its saffron orb reaching just beyond the tips of the tree branches beneath it. As the wind moved through the sky, whipping past the window in a blur and a howl, it shook the branches, which tapped at the glass noisily before going still again.

Elizabeth went over to the window. She could see the woods, and a stable below. Just past them, lie a lake of spacious proportions, which glistened in the dark, the light of the moon dancing atop the water as it moved. She yawned and sat down in the armchair beside the desk.

The warmth of the hearth to her right was making her feel sleepier by the minute, and she caught herself nodding off as she stared into the fire, watching the embers fall into the soot below and fizzle out as they hit the ground.

The feeling it gave her was so tranquil that she shut eyes, if only for a second.

“Elizabeth?” a voice said gently.

She turned around at the unexpected sound of her name.

Just there, in the corner of the room, Monsieur Jones was standing in the archway behind the door she left open. Because of the time of night, it was just dark enough to where she couldn’t quite make out his face or his features. Her view of him was also partly obstructed by the muslin folding screen.

The sight made her nervous. She stood up slowly from her desk, wondering what – if anything – to say. She thought about curtsying to him but decided against it at the last minute. Instead, she remained silent.

“Please,” he said gently, “don’t get up on my account.”

She sat down again and waited.

“I just wanted to make sure you were well taken care of before I retired to my chambers for the evening,” he said. “Did you get enough to eat?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes,” she replied timorously. “More than enough.”

This answer seemed to satisfy him, and his shadow relaxed in the distance. “I hope you will be warm in here. It can get quite cold in the winter, but the fire should help.”

“I’m grateful to have it,” she whispered. “Back home we rarely had such amenities.”

“Well, you needn’t worry anymore.”

“My family,” she said suddenly. “Can I still see them?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth exhaled in relief.

“Is everything here to your liking?” he asked quietly. “The room, I mean. I had Madam Violet decorate it for you.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth looked down at her desk, unsure of what to say. “I’ve never been in a house this beautiful before,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed as she whispered, “It’s lovely.”

“And you’re sure your warm enough? I had Madam Violet put an extra comforter on your bed for the night.”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she replied gratefully.

“Good. There is just one other thing.”

“Oh?” Her voice sounded nervous as she said it; she listened intently, hanging on his every word.

“I know how hard this must be for you,” he said, “being married off to a man you barely know. It was my hope that if I took a bride from the village below that some of the villagers would leave me alone.” He sighed audibly. “But, we shall see.”

“Leave you alone?”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard what they say about me,” he said plainly. “In truth, I just want to be able to compose and play my music without being harassed.”

Elizabeth had heard tales about this man for years, certainly. But now, given his perspective, she half wondered if they had greatly exaggerated those stories. That, or he was simply a reclusive musician who liked to keep to himself.

“Anyways,” he said, “that was my intention.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?” she whispered. “What then?”

He grinned in the darkness. “Then, I guess I’ll have to make do with having a beautiful wife,” he said. “Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

His shadow disappeared from the floor in her room, and after another second, it vanished entirely.

Once he was gone, Elizabeth sighed in relief. In truth, she didn’t know what to make of him, or what had just transpired. But he seemed kind, which was more than she had hoped for initially. And he had called her beautiful.

Elizabeth turned and stared at herself in the mirror. In spite of being slightly malnourished, her face still looked bright and her cheeks had the faintest hint of color in them, which she attributed to the wonderful food from the kitchen and the fire burning steadily in the fireplace close to her new bed. She sighed and decided that she should probably get some rest. As if resigned to her fate, she grabbed the wool blanket on the armchair beside her desk and wrapped it around herself.

She stood up from the desk slowly, clinging to the blanket as she walked over to the bed. She sat down against its edge, enjoying the warmth of the fire as it enveloped her legs and feet. She yawned sleepily as she laid her head upon the pillows behind her back.

As she stared at the fire, barely able to keep herself awake, she thought of everything that had transpired that night, and how nothing had turned out in the way she had expected. The last thing she thought of as she drifted off was the blue eye that she had caught a glimpse of beneath the curtain as Madam Violet had walked her to her bedroom.

Eyes like the sea, and skin as white as snow – there was a tempest stirring behind that eye, she was sure of it. But something about it had looked sad. Elizabeth wondered what it was, and, if, and when, she would ever get to see what he actually looked like. She yawned. Given that he had said he didn’t like people looking at his face, though, such a thing was highly unlikely.

She shut her eyes, and soon, was fast asleep.

...

I hope you are all doing well and staying safe. x


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